“Fresh vegetables and a good chicken,” Angie said. “I’ll make up a big batch of chicken soup. Never seen a sickness yet that didn’t respond to country penicillin.”
17
The crisis struck on the third night.
Doc Thatcher had left a few hours earlier. He stopped in every morning and evening; he first checked on Carson, then listened to the girl’s chest and measured her temperature, then listened again. Angie always sat beside him, helping Melissa to sit up so he could place the stethoscope on her back.
After his last inspection, he had taken Angie into the hallway and said quietly, “She might need the hospital, Angie.”
“She’d hate it worse than anything.”
“I know. But her chest is congested, and I can’t seem to shift that fever. Putting her under an oxygen tent might give her some help breathing.”
She started to protest, then saw the genuine concern in his eyes, and stifled her own fears. “Do what you think best.”
He pursed his lips, studied the floor at his feet, and decided, “We’ll give it one more day. If it’s no better tomorrow evening, I’ll have to move her over to Parker Memorial.”
“I’ll have her ready,” Angie promised. “How is Carson?”
“Improving. He’s older and stronger and got a powerful will, that fellow. He’ll be fine, now that somebody’s here to see he stays in bed and rests.” Doc Thatcher fastened her with a keen eye. “What about you?”
“Me? I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look just about done in. Are you sleeping any?”
“Now and then. I get enough rest.”
“See that you do. You won’t be helping anybody, wearing yourself out so you wind up flat on your back.” He patted her shoulder and headed down the hall. “You have my number in case anything changes.”
“Right beside the phone.”
Ten minutes after he left, Emma pulled up. When Angie answered the doorbell, Emma took one look at her friend and said, “You look like a used washrag. When was the last time you lay down?”
“I’m fine,” Angie said flatly and changed the subject. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Emma hefted the casserole dish. “Shepherd’s pie. I thought Carson might be ready for some stick-to-his-ribs food.”
“Umm, it looks good. I might have some too. You’re a dear,” Angie said, taking the dish.
“And you are a saint.” Emma glanced into the house. “How are they?”
“Carson is improving. Doc Thatcher’s worried about Melissa. He may move her to the hospital tomorrow.”
“Poor little thing.” Emma searched her purse and came up with a pair of get-well cards. “One of these is for Melissa. All my classes signed it for her. The other one’s for you.”
Angie set the casserole down on the side table. “For me?”
“I was worried about people talking—you know, you being here alone and all. But I was wrong, what I said about people talking. They’re talking, all right, but it’s all good. Carson’s made himself some friends around the factory and the town. Folks are glad he’s got somebody like you seeing after him and the child.”
She handed over the cards. “Friends from church all signed this for you. I’m off to Bible study now. We’ll be praying for you as well as them in there.”
Angie repressed a sudden shudder. “Give everyone my thanks.”
“I will.” Emma searched her face. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing.” But there was no place here for hiding things. Nor need. “I just had this sudden memory of a prayer group I was with down in the city. The week before the doctors gave me the final news that I couldn’t have children, they prayed over me. One of the ladies looked up and said, ‘I see you holding a baby born in June.’ ”
“Oh, honey,” Emma sighed.
“I wanted so to believe it,” Angie said, and suddenly felt her strength leave her. She leaned against the doorjamb and went on, “Then my husband left, and June came and went, and all I had was a hole in my heart. Were they wrong? Was God wrong? Was I not a proper believer? The questions were so painful I tried not to think for the longest time.”
“The things you’ve been through,” Emma murmured.
“That summer, I stayed as busy as I could with summer courses, anything to keep my mind occupied. But it seemed like every time I went out I was seeing babies everywhere. Every other person in the supermarket was a mother with a stroller. Every other person in church was part of a family.”
Emma reached out and enveloped her friend. “You are part of a family, honey. Our family. I love you like you were my own sister.” She released Angie and wiped her cheeks. “Now I want you to promise you’ll call me if there’s anything you need.”
Angie thanked her and hugged her a second time, then waved her down the walk. It was only when she shut the door that she heard a weak call from the other end of the house.
Angie flew down the hall, saw that Carson had not wakened, and raced into the back bedroom. “What’s the matter, honey?”
The flushed little face looked at her, the eyes terror stricken. “I thought you had left and gone away forever.”
“Shhh, sweetheart, it’s all right. It was just a fever dream.” Angie reached for the bowl of ice and water, dipped in the cloth, and wiped Melissa’s face. She looked so tiny in that giant bed. “Everything is going to be fine.”
“Just like Momma.” A hot hand gripped her own with surprising strength. “Promise me you won’t go away and leave me alone.”
“I’ll be right here,” Angie soothed, but her heart had become so full that the words were a little hoarse. “You try to rest now.”
“I woke up and you weren’t here and I got so scared,” Melissa said.
“I’m not going anywhere; don’t you worry.”
She was silent for a long moment, comforted by the cloth and by Angie’s touch. Then she started to rise. Angie pressed her back, saying, “Stay still, Melissa. What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”
“The box,” she whispered, looking toward her closet.
“Your music box?” Angie hesitated. “You want me to bring it here?”
Melissa nodded, her feverish gaze on the closet door.
Angie wavered a moment, then walked over, reached to the top shelf, and brought down the box. She carried it back to the bed. “Do you want me to set it here on the table?”
“Let me do it,” Melissa said, reaching over. With difficulty she turned the gilded key, hesitated a long moment, then lifted the lid with the ballerina seated on it. The silvery tones of “Greensleeves” filled the room.
Melissa lay on her side, listening to the music. A single tear welled up and traced its way down her cheek.
Angie started to close the lid, but before she could move, Melissa whispered, “Leave it open, please. Will you hold me?”
“Oh, my dear, of course I will.” Angie set the box on the side table, moved the bowl, and stretched out beside Melissa. She felt hands reach over and curl up under her chin as the small body pressed close. From the table, the music chimed along in brilliant cadence.
Angie found herself remembering an early Christmas, when she had sung her first church solo. The song had been “What Child Is This,” sung to this very melody. She held the little body close. Strange that she would think of such a thing now.
And then Angie heard, soft as a whisper, Melissa sing, “This, this, is Christ the King, whom shepherds guard . . .” But the voice drifted to a stop as she caught her breath. Angie squeezed her tightly.
“I wish Momma could have met you,” Melissa whispered, snuggling even closer. “She would have loved you. I just know it.”
Angie searched for something to say, but could only lie and stroke the silken hair. Then a thought occurred to her. She looked down at the little auburn head and asked, “When were you born? I don’t think I know your birthday.”
“The first of June,” came the whispered re
ply as Melissa drifted ever closer to sleep. “Momma always called my birthday the herald of summer.”
June.
18
Angie awoke to sunshine and birdsong and a small form still tucked up against her. She raised her head and discovered that Carson was standing in the doorway, robe wrapped up close to his chin, his eyes fastened upon the pair of them. As quietly as she could, Angie eased her arm out from beneath Melissa’s head. The child stirred but did not awaken. She slid from the bed, walked over, studied his face, and whispered, “You’re feeling better.”
He nodded. “So is Melissa.”
Angie turned back to the bed and felt an enormous flood of relief when she saw that it was so. The fever-flush was gone, replaced by the pale shadow of weakness. In that instant Angie knew for certain that recovery had begun.
“I’ve made coffee,” Carson whispered. “Come join me when you’re ready.”
When Angie entered the kitchen, Carson filled a cup and put it down in front of her, then seated himself across from her. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done. I don’t know how we would have managed on our own.”
His gaze was gentle and deep, filled with a peace that Angie felt disarm every one of her barriers. Carson went on, “I’ve watched you these past few days and seen how you care, and I’ve felt so reassured.”
“Reassured?” Angie set down her cup. “Why?”
“You’ve been so distant the past few weeks,” he said slowly. “I was afraid I’d done something to drive you away.”
“Carson—”
“No, wait, let me finish. I’ve never been good at talking about my emotions, and even worse since, well, for the past three years. You’ve taught me so much, and shared so much, and when I felt you drawing away from me . . .” He hesitated a moment, then lowered his eyes and finished, “I felt as though I had lost you. And it hurt worse than I could bear.”
“Carson, I’ve been such an idiot.” She reached across and took his hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I’ve been so frightened, and for all the wrong reasons.”
He raised his gaze. “Then, you weren’t angry with me?”
“Oh no. Not at all.” She felt his other hand across her own, the warmth and comfort coursing through his touch, easing away her reserve. “I was hurt so terribly. I never thought I’d ever, well . . .”
“Love again,” he murmured softly.
She nodded, feeling the heat in her chest and the burning in her eyes, and whispered, “Yes.”
“Neither did I. And when it came, I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. But it’s true.” He searched her face. “I know it’s a lot to ask, coming into your life with a child who’s not yours. But I love you so, I’ve lain there in my bed and known this as clearly as anything I’ve ever known in my entire life. Do you think you could ever love me—love us?”
“I do,” she whispered. “I do so already.”
The grip on her hands strengthened. He waited until she had raised her gaze to meet his own, then asked, “Angie Picard, would you marry me?”
“Oh, Papa . . .” The soft voice from the kitchen doorway drew their startled glances, then all three were laughing and crying and hugging.
19
Even though she had been ready and waiting for almost two hours, still the doorbell seemed directly connected to her head and jangled every nerve in her body when it sounded. She hurried down the front hall, opened the door to a beaming young face. “I declare, I thought you’d never get here.”
“Don’t you start,” Emma called from the car. “We’re ten minutes early.”
“Never mind. Oh, now where did I put my purse.”
“It’s right here,” Melissa said, picking it off the doorknob, then turning and calling back to the car, “You were right, Miss Emma. She’s nervous.”
“I am not either,” Angie restarted, rattling the keys as she struggled to lock the door. “And I’d have every reason to be if I were.”
Melissa hurried down the walk beside her. “Miss Emma says we’re gonna knock them dead.”
“What an appropriately delightful way to describe a duet for a Sunday worship,” Angie said, climbing into the car.
“Good morning to you, too,” Emma said, putting the car in gear.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into riding to church. I probably won’t have any composure at all without my morning walk.”
“You can loosen your grip on that purse, dear,” Emma said. “That is, unless you aim on tearing it in two.”
Angie’s rejoinder was cut off by the sight of a familiar truck driving by. Hammond Whitley, Mark Whitley’s father, was the town’s finest builder. But this morning, the truck seemed to coast by the ladies on its own. The crest of a paint-spattered hat was all that could be seen of the driver, as though he had slumped down below the wheel. “Was that Ham?” Angie asked.
“It couldn’t be,” Emma said, shoving her foot down on the gas pedal. “And if it was, I’ll shoot him myself.”
Melissa giggled from the backseat. Emma glared at her in the rearview mirror. “I’ll thank you to keep hold of whatever it is that’s tickling you, young lady.”
Angie peered at her friend through squinted eyes. “Emma Drummond, what mischief have you got cooking?”
“Me? Huh. As if I had enough time for anything, what with three teenagers, four classes, Luke’s hardware store, and a pair of singers so nervous they’d fly out the window if I didn’t keep it rolled up tight.”
“I’m not nervous, and you’re avoiding my question.”
“If I told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, you’re worse than my youngest for dreaming up nonsense.”
“Speaking of your children,” Angie queried suspiciously, “why aren’t they with you this morning?”
“Oh, they’re with Luke.” Something about the question left Emma flustered. She picked up her program from the seat between them and began fanning herself. “I declare, it’s more like July than late April.”
The road wound into town, a series of curves made graceful by the bounty of cherry trees blooming on either side. The blossoms were at their height that weekend, each tree bursting with white and pink. The gentle fragrance lingered on the tongue, sweet as honey, light as air. “Where is Luke?”
“In his truck,” Emma said, her agitation increasing as Melissa stifled another tiny giggle. “Now, why don’t you think about what’s just up ahead. Do you have your music?”
Angie proceeded to make a frantic search of the seat around her. “Oh my goodness, wait, you’ll have to turn around.”
“It’s right here, Miss Emma,” Melissa sang out from the backseat. “I picked it up from her hall table.”
“Bless you, child. It’s good to know somebody’s able to keep hold of their wits this morning.” Emma heaved a sigh of genuine relief when they rounded the corner and the church came into view. “Now, come on, let’s go greet the folks.”
There seemed to be a determined effort by everyone at church to share a smile and half a secret with her. Their gladness was infectious, even with Angie, even on that particular Sunday.
Then the crowd parted, and there before her stood Gina. A smiling, happy woman, dark-haired and vibrant, inspecting her with those piercing black eyes, then lifting her arms and walking forward and hugging Angie close. To her ears alone she said, “You’ve changed, my dear. Oh, how you’ve changed!”
All Angie could manage was, “What? . . . How?”
“Miss Gina’s been talking with Miss Emma,” piped up a very breathless Melissa. “And then Miss Gina called me!”
At Angie’s questioning look, Gina said, “I remembered Emma from your wedding. Anyway, I wouldn’t have missed this performance for the world.” She released Angie long enough to reach into her purse. “I found another passage and wrote it down. Only this one is not for you. It’s for all the other people you’re going to be able to help.” She handed over the card and finished
with joyful assurance, “Now that you have found the answer for yourself.”
Angie accepted the card and read the neatly printed passage from Isaiah: “In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them: in his love and in his pity he redeemed them: and he bare them up, and carried them.”
“This is beautiful,” Angie said slowly. She stared into the smiling face and said, “I can’t believe you came all this way just to hear me sing.”
Gina looked startled. “Why, don’t—”
“Miss Emma’s waving at us,” Melissa broke in, suddenly frantic. “We have to go right now!”
Angie gave Gina a final hug and then allowed the little form to pull her from the gathering. Emma shooed them around to the tiny changing room used by the choir. “You two get into your robes and go over your songs one more time. I’m going to check on the folks up here.”
“Emma—”
“Go on now, anything you’ve got to say can wait until afterward.”
Angie watched the girl slip her robe over her head and begin singing through the first tune. Melissa swayed so her robe flowed out in golden ripples. Angie stood by the wall and watched her dance in little happy circles. Melissa’s joy was infectious.
Suddenly Angie was caught by the need to ask something that had been on her mind all week. The thought left her so unsettled she had to sit down.
“Melissa,” she started, then caught herself, uncertain how to continue.
“It’s okay, Miss Picard,” Melissa assured her. “Everything is going to be just fine. Miss Emma says once we start singing, the nerves will go away.”
“For once, I think she’s probably right.” Angie tried to still her flutters, then patted the seat next to her. “Come sit beside me for a moment, please.”
When Melissa had settled, Angie hesitated a moment longer, then said, “It would be nice if you would call me Angie when we’re alone like this. That is, if you want.”
Melissa beamed. “I’d like that very much. Is that what you wanted to ask me?”
“No.” Nervously she clasped her hands in her lap. “Your father and I have been talking about, well, plans for after we’re . . .”
The Music Box Page 12
